


Peacherino

by charcoalwinter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Can I Please Get A Waffle?, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Crack, Domestic Avengers, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Except It's Pancakes, Gen, Not Beta Read, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, One Shot, POV Clint Barton, Pancakes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sexual References, Steve and Bucky making up for their 70-year dry spell, That's what, What kind of shenanigans can we get up to today?, ft. Clint and FRIDAY getting along like a house on fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20413552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalwinter/pseuds/charcoalwinter
Summary: WOTD 27-08-2019peacherino [pee-chuh-ree-noh]noun: a person orthing that is especially liked, attractive,or enjoyed5 times someone other than Clint eats Clint’s pancakes and 1 time Clint eats Clint’s pancakes.





	Peacherino

**Author's Note:**

> Based on dictionary.com’s word of the day. The underlined section of the definition is the part that I shall be following.
> 
> Listen, I’ll admit that I had a good amount of disbelief followed quickly by a hearty giggle when I read ‘peacherino’, but I couldn’t deny the opportunity to write about it. I almost had _too many_ ideas for the story and it just would have been a shame to skip this one, okay?
> 
> They're living in Av. Tower and CA: CW didn’t happen because everyone talked it out like adults. Ta-da.
> 
> I do not own Marvel or any of Marvel’s characters. The writing and the plot are my own work and all mistakes are solely mine. Please do not make any of the actors aware that this exists.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚1˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

Pancakes aren’t Natasha’s favourite breakfast cuisine. She’s more of a crepe girl. Or hash browns if you’re moving out of the realm of batter-related foods. But, at 0400 when nightmares have been plaguing her sleep and she needs fuel to dance and fight away her stress in the gym, she’ll eat anything that’s available and easy. 

These are all facts that Clint is aware of. That is why, when he enters the kitchen at 0430 and finds a weary-eyed, red-headed best friend slumped over the obvious remains of a plate of pancakes, he doesn’t mention that they’re the reason he got out of bed so early. He’s not a monster.

Instead, he sidles up to her, making enough noise that she won’t be startled -though he’s sure she has already clocked his exact location without even looking up-, and lays his arm over her shoulders. He hums when she leans into the touch and shovels the last bite of pancake into her mouth.

As badly as Clint wanted that batch of batter to become _his _crisis-o’clock-meal, he pushes any need and resentment aside for the wellbeing of his closest teammate. The grey bags under her eyes say enough about how well Natasha has been sleeping the past week or so. If giving up one stack of his favourite snack so that her day gets started on a relatively pleasant note, then Clint is more than happy to provide.

Just call him Pancake-Oprah.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚2˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

Fresh out the shower having returned from a mission with Natasha not quite two hours ago, Clint makes his way to the team’s shared kitchen. He knows for a fact that there is a bottle of pancake mix sitting content in the pantry, ready for him to cook and decorate and demolish.

He’s thinking chocolate and peanut butter today. That’ll be a nice reward for not having received a single injury. The nearly-black bruise on his knee doesn’t count, I’ll have you know; it’s called a superhero landing and he fucking nailed it.

Just as he turns the corner to his destination, considering perhaps throwing a banana into the batter for the hell of it -and also health!-, Clint meets a sight so blasphemous and just so… _typical_.

Both of the oldest/youngest (depending on which way you look at it) Avengers are locked in a tongue battle while leaning over a plate that is piled high with fluffy, golden pancakes. _Clint’s _fluffy, golden pancakes.

He chokes on air. “In a public area?! REALLY?!”

The super soldiers don’t pay him any attention, too busy licking maple syrup off each other’s fingers and smearing whipped cream in inappropriate places.

Clint whines. “Can’t you ancient fucks keep it in your pants for _five minutes_? You know, most people your age suffer from erectile dysfunction and saggy balls,” he offers, hoping the realness of his fun fact will destroy the mood. “Or they’re dead!” a loudly added last minute resort.

All he gets in response is a moan and the continuing ruination of his innocent snack.

“My pancakes… my eyes…”

Still, no mind is paid to him. With a grunt and a sigh, Clint leaves the hopeless case alone and trudges to Natasha’s floor to complain about the unfairness of it all, order some pizza, and maybe also bleach his brain.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚3˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

Psyching himself up to face pancakes again after last week’s eye-watering debacle, Clint strolls into the kitchen ready for a cup of joe and a nice, G-rated meal.

There are two empty containers of pancake mix resting by the sink, and a single, soggy pancake sitting on a plate in Thor’s bear-sized hands. Said pancake is sprinkled with what looks like ground coffee? and sugar? and holy shit, how hasn’t Clint thought of that before?!

If he weren’t so heartbroken over his regular bottle _and _his spare bottle (this has happened twice before and he wasn’t taking the risk of it happening again, though clearly it didn’t work because one of the Avengers happens to be a god who eats literal -okay, maybe not literal- truckloads of food), Clint would be slapping himself silly.

As it is, the God of Thunder somehow beat him to it, and apparently has already eaten both batches.

Clint’s eye twitches with the effort of suppressing a scream. He knows it’s not Thor’s fault. That man wouldn’t hurt a fly if he could avoid it; he certainly wouldn’t knowingly wreck the start of someone’s day by eating their breakfast. That doesn’t make this any less dampening for his spirit though.

“Clinton!” Thor declares upon noticing his arrival.

Clint sighs and pours himself a cup of coffee before turning to face the god. “Thor, my man, my dude, how are you on this fine, _fine_ morning?” he asks with false cheer and enthusiasm that, thankfully, his well-meaning friend doesn’t notice.

“Pancakes! The mightiest of breakfasts, I must declare. Fit for a king, yes?” he hollers with his loud and untameable voice as he shoves the last bite of pancake into his mouth.

“I could be mighty…” Clint huffs, turning away from his lost meal and trying to figure out the best way to drown himself in his half-full mug of sludgy coffee instead.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚4˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

“What! Are! You! Doing!”

Tony glances up from his bowl of pancakes (a bowl, Tony?), confusion and shock taking over his features. “I… what?”

Storming up to the crook, Clint carries on with his shouting - it feels good to yell, okay, don’t @ him. “Those are _my_ pancakes and I haven’t had one in _weeks._ They are my life force; they keep me breathing. Why is everyone stealing them? Which god did I anger? It can’t have been Thor because two days ago, it was _him _all sticky-fingered with syrup.” Clint heaves a breath. “All I want is my pancakes,” he sighs, running out of steam.

“Uh,” Tony eloquently contributes.

“Why are you eating my pancakes, Stark?”

Tony’s eyes brighten and his expression lifts. This is not good. A maniacal rant is coming, Clint can feel it.

“Ah! Well, I was doing an experiment to see if there was any possible way that pancakes could be cooked in a toaster and then I broke all four of our toasters, and then Bruce was hungry and I was hungry, but then Bruce had to go and I was left with all of these half-formed pancakes, so I threw them out and ordered some from that diner nearby and now, looking at your face, I sort of wish I was dead.”

“That’s it!” Clint declares, and no, he does not stomp his foot like a child, thank you very much. “I’m putting a sign up and FRIDAY will be letting me know which of you _monsters _ignores it so that I can make sure the culprit never gets to choose movie night again. Won’t you, FRIDAY?”

“Certainly, Mr. Barton.”

Clint points at Tony, a smirk dancing on his lips at the look of complete and utter betrayal written across the genius’ pancake-stuffed face. “Hah!”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚5˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

With his pancake mix labelled in thick pen reading ‘Clint’s! Do Not Eat Or Else Await Serious Injury!’, Clint was pretty confident that today is the day he will be reunited with the sweet, doughy goodness that heaven itself gave this Earth. He skipped into the kitchen and sobbed in relief when he found the container exactly where he left it and completely untouched.

Today is going to be the day to end all days.

He gets FRIDAY to blast some Rihanna while he sings and dances around the space, shaking the bottle like he’s a broke bartender trying to rake in as many tips as possible. It takes a few minutes for him to be sure that he has properly mixed all of the powder and the water (and a small splash of vanilla extract - he’s basically a professional chef at this point).

Cooking the pancakes goes as well as he expects, i.e. the first one is a disaster, the second one is a strange shape, and the third one and every one that follows is flawlessly circular and has just the right amount of crisp on the golden exterior.

His stack is so tall that Clint would be worried for its stability if it weren’t glued together with layers of maple syrup. Maybe he threw a couple of pieces of bacon in there as well because dammit, he’s got his pancakes now and he’s going to do this thing _right_.

A dollop of whipped cream on top, and he can, at last, sit down to eat in peace. Clint cuts a slice of one and has it almost to his mouth when he realises… _sprinkles_. Sprinkles on pancakes? Yes. _Yes. _

Hurriedly, he moves to the pantry to grab the colourful toppings. There’s currently nobody else in the general facility that will steal them last minute and he asked FRIDAY to warn him if it looks like someone is approaching. But still, it’s been a long time coming for these pancakes, and with his luck, there’s probably a ghost around that has the ability to become tangible purely to consume solid foods, specifically, _Clint’s _food.

As he wraps his hand around the container though, Clint hears a noise that sounds suspiciously like Lucky when he eats his evening kibble. Inhaling sharply, he spins around and drops the box in despair at what he sees, sending the tiny, rainbow-coloured specks everywhere.

His dog. _His own dog_. Betrayal like he’s never felt betrayal before. Truly a demoralising experience.

Lucky is _standing on the bench_ with his snout buried in Clint’s once-beautiful pile of pancakes, slobbering over every particle his tongue can reach and chomping down mouthfuls seemingly without taking a breath.

“Aw, pancakes, no…”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚+1˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

In the vents above the gym (because why would anyone expect the _gym_ floor), Clint hovers over his plate, finally alone with his most recent batch of pancakes where no human, god, or dog can steal them. They’re stacked just as high as yesterday’s attempt, drizzled with the ideal ratio of pancake to toppings.

He sighs lovingly at the mountain of sugar. “My darling, my pretty, my sweet. Come to papa, my perfect peacherino. I’ve missed you, baby. Never again leave me for so long.”

The first bite is heaven; the second is just as good; the third is more whipped cream than pancake but that’s okay; the fourth will likely have a starring role in his dreams tonight; the fifth… there are no words.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚BONUS˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

The assemblage of thieves crowd tightly around Tony’s tablet, upon which a security feed is being broadcast. They all watch intently, wearing matching expressions of carefully ratioed awe and disgust, as their very own Clint Barton stuffs bite after bite of syrup-and-whipped-cream-(and are they sprinkles?)-covered pancake into his mouth, all the while waxing poetic as though he was the leading man in a romantic movie.

In the dim lighting of the 82nd-floor ceiling vent system, thankfully only the barest outline of their most chaotic teammate can be seen. With the noises coming through the crystal-clear audio set-up, it’s a relief that the prospect of being visually scarred is avoidable.

“Well, I, for one, am never eating pancakes again,” Natasha finally breaks the tense almost-silence wherein only Clint’s moans can be heard from the tablet’s speakers. And with that, she stalks out of the room, shaking her head.

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand and drags him towards the hallway too. His last words before they’re out of earshot follow the lines of, “Stevie, I’m gonna need you to fuck me so hard into next week that the past ten minutes disappear from my mind quicker than that chair erased my memories.”

The God of Thunder seems relatively unphased by Clint’s pornographic reaction to finally getting his pancakes. “A very strange man, that Hawkeye,” he booms, and immediately disappears from sight in a flash of lightning.

Still holding the tablet -now switched off and ready for a good and thorough cleansing-, Tony is left to make sure this saga never repeats itself.

“FRIDAY, are you still functioning after that trauma?” 

“Yes, boss,” she sighs, “I cannot feel positive or negative reactions to events; therefore, trauma is not compatible with my existence.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, though secretly very proud of his girl, Tony huffs a breath. “There is simply no need for that sarcasm, missy. Order me a year’s supply of pancake mix and have it delivered to Clint’s room with the instructions that he never eat them in the presence of another human being.”

“Your request has been arranged. The order should arrive within two days.”

“And I’m out,” he mutters to himself, retreating to his lab to become lost in a new project and desperately try not to replay anything he has just had the misfortune of witnessing.

Lucky, lying on the rug and still comfortably digesting the best meal he has ever eaten, whoofs softly to the now-empty room and promptly falls asleep, entering a dream of pancake fields and maple rains.

**Author's Note:**

> *Throws this at you, two days late and mostly unedited.* _Just take it._
> 
> This was done in a relatively short amount of time and hasn’t been subjected to much editing. It’s not meant to be a flawless work of art; merely some practice in writing vignettes. This piece is something a bit more fun and light-hearted than I would normally go for, but I had a blast writing it. It was also my first time writing some of these characters properly, so that was a grand, new experience as well.
> 
> I wouldn’t recommend feeding your dog(s) pancakes, especially with maple syrup and whipped cream and the whole host of other condiments that Clint had added, but for the sake of this story, Lucky is fine, don’t panic!
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos put fresh air into my lungs and I appreciate them more than you will ever know, so if you enjoyed this, please feed my ego, it’s so starved.
> 
> xx


End file.
